


The Red God

by Aragem



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Deal with a Devil, Depression, F/F, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sex, Mental Health Issues, Possession, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aragem/pseuds/Aragem
Summary: A writer suffering depression and insomnia is struggling against writer's block to begin her new novel, meets a demon that offers her clarity . . .for a price.For updates, sneak peeks, and more follow me on Tumblr: rebelcourtesan
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Character(s), Alastor/Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Valentino & Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	1. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A writer that can't write meets a demon and a deal is struck unknowingly.

White. It was the most intimidating color of all. It was the color of a blank canvas or page. It demanded to be filled with color or words, but the struggle was the first line of a paragraph or the first stroke of a brush.

Red had so much to offer. The color of passion, fire, love, sex, violence, and blood.

The monitor glowed bright, casting a glow across the keyboard and her hands poised above it. A mug of coffee steamed on the desk within easy reach. Cora already had a small dinner, taken a shower, did her laundry, and even cleaned the litter box. All of her excuses not to start were gone. It was time to work.

"Fuck," she muttered, sinking her face into her palms.

Just a hundred words. She could do a hundred words to start her novel, but which hundred words? What scene should she pen? She had no idea of the characters or plot.

"God, it shouldn't be this hard," she moaned.

What had happened those years ago when she could spit out a series of short stories at the drop of a hat? The words had flowed from her like water from a fountain. Sometimes she was so eager to submit her work that did a sloppy editing job, much to her agent's aggravation.

Sipping some coffee, she regarded the blank word doc as if it was a bitter rival. The blinking cursor blinked at her challengingly and then blurred into a dark smudge. Blinking and rubbing her eyes, she checked the time. It was nearly 1:00 in the morning. How long had she been trying to write?

"Fuck this . . . I'm going to bed," Cora sighed, switching off the monitor and rising. Tomorrow morning, she will try again.

She plugged in her phone, ignoring a vibrant notice about a new text message. It would more requests from her editor for updates on her next novel or inquires about her health from her mother.

Yes, mother, I've been getting plenty of sleep.

Don't worry, Andrew, the novel is progressing well.

Lies was all she could offer them.

On her phone, she turned on soft jazz as sleeping music. Sometimes it helped, other times, it didn't. Jazz could ease the anxiety that kept her up at night. Even now, as she was laying her head on the pillow, her mind was racing, demanding she return to her desktop and start punching out sentences and paragraphs, to at least start!

Her deadline was coming up, and she had nothing to show for it. Her publisher will demand the advance back if she doesn't give them something, and she had already used it all to keep the apartment. Her royalties had been dipping, and she was going to have to drop her insurance soon if she couldn't keep up with payments.

There was a sudden weight on her legs. Gasping, she sat up so quickly it made her dizzy. Bright yellow eyes peered at her from between her knees, and a pink tongue flick over a black nose.

"Maddie, you little brat. You scared me," she sighed.

The black cat responded by grooming her paw and rubbing it over an ear. Cora lifted her by the middle to tuck next to her. Petting the dark silky fur made her feel better, but unfortunately, Maddie wasn't a cuddler and soon wriggled out of her arms to resume her spot by her legs.

"Whatever," Cora sighed, laying down again.

Sleep came in snatches of darkness. She couldn't remember the last time she dreamed. Most of it was nightmares where she ran away from something, or some impending doom was about to smash her to bits. Cora considered going to a sleep clinic, but it was something she only thought about when sleep evaded her in the late hours of the night.

Sleep was just at the edge if she could only still her mind and close her eyes. The music was different now. It wasn't the slow, soft jazz, but a more uplifting song with horns and singing.

[Close your Eyes](https://open.spotify.com/track/37h5FU2cUrK7bEHGKf2zBQ?si=Gx7DmlqxRw6T83bHEiLe-w)  
[When you open them dear](https://open.spotify.com/track/37h5FU2cUrK7bEHGKf2zBQ?si=Gx7DmlqxRw6T83bHEiLe-w)  
[I'll be right here by your side](https://open.spotify.com/track/37h5FU2cUrK7bEHGKf2zBQ?si=Gx7DmlqxRw6T83bHEiLe-w)

Maddie hissed, her body arched and expanding as she backed away from something near the bed. Then she took off in a black streak, chased by shadows trailing after her like fish in a stream.

Cora's eyes opened, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of her phone. Even in the dark, she could see the vivid red figuring looming over her. Crimson orbs glowed at her above a bright yellow smile filled with jagged teeth.

Fear squeezed her chest, but a pragmatic part of her recognized this as an anxiety-induced terror. She was getting some form of restless sleep, which must be a good sign.

"What are you?" Her voice was dry, strained with exhaustion.

"Not the sandman, darling," the red figure declared, swinging a short cane behind his back and forward in a showmanship manner. "I'm called the Radio Demon, but you can call me Alastor, my sleepy dear."

It started her to hear him speak. None of her other terrors had such courtesies. His voice had the static or the hiss of an old radio or that background notice in old recordings. "What are you doing in my room . . .Alastor?"

"That's what I was about to ask you." The cane stood upright, and he propped his elbow atop of it while perching his chin on his knuckles. "I was enjoying a show in Hell when I received an invitation to the Living World, and I couldn't resist seeing who the sender could be."

"It wasn't me," Cora replied. As an afterthought, she added, "Sorry."

"No need for apology," Alastor beamed at her. "I'm not disappointed at all! This arrangement can be beneficial to both of us!"

"And what arrangement would that be?" Cora muttered, wondering when she was going to wake up. And she had a bad feeling this could be the antidepressant giving her a hallucination.

"Your mind racing as if it were being taken for a spin in the dance hall," Alastor crooned, leaning forward, almost bent double from his great height. "I could make it slow down, give you the clarity of sparkling clean glass."

"Sure . . .go for it," Cora sighed, tilting her head into the pillow.

The grin grew wider, the eyes darkened into a rich scarlet. "You don't want to hear about your end of the deal?"

"Tell me later," Cora muttered, bobbing her shoulders in a shrug.

"Very well." A thin gloved hand opened, and a green light glowed brightly from the palm. "Let's shake on it."

Cora squinted her eyes closed. For a dream or a hallucination, it was bright. She raised a hand, missed a few times, but managed to catch the hand which squeezed around hers.

Something warm, almost tangible, passed from his hand to hers, traveling through her arm, shoulder, and into her. It was painful and would have awakened her, but something else was happening. . .something wonderful.

The thoughts, worries, guilt, nagging voices, and anxiety melted away. Her mind was still like a blank slate. Cora remained awake long enough to yawn before rolling onto her side, taking a comfortable position, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was so deep, she didn't respond when the sharp tip of a red finger drew a line along her cheek. Beads of blood welled from the scratch which was collected onto another fingertip.

Alastor licked the blood off his glove, eyeing the sleeping woman with a pleased smile.


	2. The First Day

It was almost noon by the time she woke up from eight blissful hours of uninterrupted sleep. There must be a God after all. 

She lay in bed, stretching her arms above her head and arching her back and straightening her legs. This must be heaven to feel so refreshed and eager to rise. It usually took her an hour to rouse herself to get out of bed, but now she was rolling out of it with barely a yawn. 

A hot shower was also heaven, warming her to the bone and roused an appetite in her. As she towel-dried her hair in the mirror, she noticed the long scratch along her cheek. It started from the apple of her cheek and went vertically to the edge of her jaw. It was still red and angry with dried blood. 

“Dammit, Maddie,” Cora muttered, dapping the scratch with a washcloth. “I’m going to kick you out of the bedroom if you’re to scratch me in my sleep.”

She didn’t notice Maddie was hiding under the bed, yellow eyes peering at her from the dark. 

For breakfast, which was a rare feat for Cora, she ate almost four Eggo waffles and drank two cups of coffee, which got her wired enough to dress and go outside to burn off some energy. When was the last time she left her apartment? That she saw a sky that wasn’t the background of a tv show? She pulled on a pair of pants and a sweater and went outside. 

Along the way down the hall, she almost bumped shoulders with a petite blonde girl who gave her a quick apology and hurried along her way. Cora had seen her a handful times since moving in and always thought she was cute with short blonde curls and cornflower blue eyes. She just never took the time to appreciate the view of her sweet round face and the way her ass filled the seat of her pants. 

The girl paused at the end of the hall and glanced back at her, catching her staring. Before, Cora would have slouched away and pretended she didn’t notice; today, she offered a shy smile. 

A hint of a blush rose on the girl’s cheeks as she gave Cora a wave before disappearing around the corner. The temptation to go after her, to introduce herself rose, but Cora turned away and headed outside. Despite how good she was feeling today, she wasn’t quite brave enough to risk rejection. 

***

She took the long walk to a corner cafe and had ice cream. It was delicious homemade vanilla that was almost too sweet. It was devoured to the last bit of cone. 

When was it that something as mundane as getting ice cream and taking a walk invigorated her? It was like someone had washed away all the negativity that had been clinging to her for years. The thoughts came clearly, and depression wasn’t dragging down her spirits. 

Maybe she should try to write something when she returned to the apartment.

Thinking of writing sparked a catalyst for creativity. It wasn’t only words, but also scenes, characters, and the plot flowed to her like a river. Experiencing a euphoria of creation, she asked for a piece of paper and a pen. Jotting down her ideas on a slip of notebook paper wasn’t fast enough to keep up with the inspiration pouring from her mind. The block in her brain had been removed, and everything that had been dammed up was released.

She literally jogged home, the first bit of exercise she had in years. So eager to return to her desktop, she didn’t look for the blonde girl on the way inside. 

Her computer couldn’t boot up quick enough, and as soon as she opened the word doc, her fingers flew across the keyboard. The words flowed from her brain, through her arms, and into her fingertips, pausing only to fix a typo or grammar error she noticed as the story flowed. By the time she stopped, for a break, she had been writing for nearly three hours straight, more than she had ever written in the last three months.

And she still needed to write more.

The general plot was about a woman named Emilia, traveling alone in New Orleans. She wasn’t sure why she chose New Orleans as she had never been there in her life, but it felt right for this story. Oddly, Cora wasn’t sure what kind of story this was going to be. If Emilia meets a man, it’s a love story, or she could turn it into a drama about self-discovery. 

It was almost evening when she picked up her phone to order take out. On the screen was a notification of a call from her mother. She furrowed her brow in concern. Even when it was on silent, it would vibrate, and it had been sitting still on the desk next to her elbow. 

Might as well return the call to keep her mother was calling again later. 

Her mother picked up on the second ring. “Cora? Hi! How was writing?”

“It’s going along better,” Cora replied, eyeing the full pages on the monitor. “Just returning your phone call earlier. How is everything?”

“Oh, everything is fine. I was worried about you, but your friend said you were working.”

Cora stopped scrolling the word doc and frowned. “My friend? What do you mean?”

“He was helping you with your work and that you were too busy to answer the phone. You might want to check your phone as there was a lot of static when I spoke with him.”

“And you called my phone . . .” It had been sitting on the desk beside her the whole time since she sat down to write. 

“Of course. It’s your only phone,” her mother said, a bit exasperated. “He was very polite and said his name is Alastor. Does he work for your publisher?”

Her cheek was beginning to hurt. “I . . .I . . .I’m not real sure. I . . .Mom, I have to go. Um, I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

In the bathroom mirror, her cheek was bleeding. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but the scratch was bright red and made pink smears on the tissue paper she cleaned it with. Did she accidentally rub it too hard without noticing? 

And who the hell was Alastor? She never needed an assistant, and she sure as fuck would know if someone had answered her phone. 

It was a big misunderstanding. Her mother must have called more than once, and one of those times, she got the wrong number, and some guy named Alastor got confused. She laid a cold, wet washcloth over the scratch until it stopped hurting.

Maddie still hid under the bed, watching her with large yellow eyes.


	3. The Second Night

A little bit of Neosporin on the scratch should keep it clean. Something must have irritated it since this morning as the skin around the scratch was quite tender to the touch and pink. Cora hoped it hadn't gotten infected.

"Dammit, Maddie," she grumbled as she closed the medicine cabinet. "If I end up wasting a day going to the doctor because of you. . ."

Maddie had been absent all day. Usually, she was underfoot demanding to be fed or vying for attention whenever Cora managed to write something. She hadn't seen Maddie since last night.

Grabbing the container of cat treats, she called Maddie and shook it. "Here, Maddie! Want a treat? Come get a treat!"

Always that would summon a black meowing streak that ended in Maddie clawing at her leg. But Maddie didn't come, and the more she waited, shaking the treat box, the more she worried. Did Maddie sneak out when she went for a walk?

She checked outside, shaking the treat container, and when that didn't produce Maddie, she went back inside to look. Was she hiding somewhere sick or hurt?

She began checking the cabinets and closets calling her name and making 'pss' 'pss' sounds. It wasn't until she searched her bedroom that she saw the eyes watching her from under the bed.

"Maddie! You're a bad girl!" Cora said, getting down onto hands and knees to reach under the bed. "Didn't you hear me calling you?"

She reached for the yellow eyes. There was a hiss, and pain splashed across the back of her hand. Snatching it back revealed three fresh bleeding marks on the back of her hand. "Goddammit, Maddie!"

A high pitch growl came as a response, followed by an angry yowl. Though Maddie was aloof, she had a laid back personality. This was the first time she had ever heard her make such noises before.

If it wasn't that she already had her rabies shots earlier that year, Cora would have been worried. Instead, she took a trip back to the bathroom for more Neosporin.

***

It was 6:00 when she skimmed through what she wrote. Chewing a mouthful of noodles, she went back to the beginning of the first chapter where Emilia is introduced.

_Emilia stepped off the train at Union Station with her handbag in hand, excitement in her heart as the cool wind from Lake Pontchartrain tousled her hair._

Cora nodded to herself, pleased with what she wrote, and continued reading, pausing to fix a mistake here or there. Chewing a mouthful of potato chips, as she edited, she nearly choked when she read about Emilia's recollection about her brother.

_Her brother was killed when Prohibition Agents raided the speakeasy._

“Whoa . . .when . . .when did I write that?”

Her usual settings were modern with smartphones, tablets, and the internet. The earliest she wrote was in the 90s or 80s and in flashbacks only. Why was she writing a story set all the way back in the 20s?

And why didn't she noticed?

The hours she wrote had been a blur of creativity and typing. Thinking about it now, she vaguely remembered doing the work. She had switched between italics and bold more than once and corrected a mistake when she noticed one . . .but everything else was like a dream. So she just wrote without stopping to reconsider a line of dialogue or completely rewrite an odd paragraph?

"Who the hell did this?" She murmured aloud to herself.

It wasn't just the setting that changed. It was the plot.

Digging through her pants pocket, she pulled out the notes she took at the cafe. They consisted of a young woman traveling to New Orleans on a personal vacation before attending college. It was changed to Emilia seeking work to send money to her poverty-stricken family after her brother, the breadwinner of the family, was killed.

All that work would be for nothing. She'd have to go back and change so much, which may take just as much time to write. So much for being productive today.

She set to work, starting from the beginning, deleting, and rewriting.

***

Her cheek was burning.

Placing a hand on it, she went to the bathroom to see it. It was bright red, like a crimson streak down her face like a red tear stain. Even dabbing it with a cold, wet washcloth sent pain across her face. Wincing, she left the bathroom to get her purse and called an Uber to take her to the ER. Something had to be wrong for a simple cat scratch to hurt like this.

Grabbing her phone from her work desk, she began dialing but stopped when she saw the time. It was almost 11:00 already.

The last time she checked the clock, it had been almost 7:00, which shouldn't have been that long ago. Where had the time gone? What . . .what had been doing?

The monitor was filled with words, new words that she didn't remember writing. With the pain in her cheek forgotten, she sat down before the screen and read.

The story was not only still set in 1920 but had progressed to the point where Emilia had gotten a job as a cleaning lady for a large house owned by a radio show host.

"I . . .I didn't write this . . ." Cora muttered, scrolling through page after page of plot and dialogue. Yet, it was her writing style. She recognized it as hers and . . .what had she been doing for the last four hours?

"It's happened," Cora moaned into her hands. "I've snapped and gone crazy."

Isn't this how insanity started? Blacking out and doing things you don't remember doing when you came to? Maybe it was a form of schizophrenia where another personality took over her body and made her do things she couldn't possibly remember later. Or it could be the infection from the scratch was reaching her brain?

She opened up her contacts to call an uber when the lights went out. Darkness surrounded her with only the glow from the monitor and phone as a dim light source. Shit, now the power was . . .if the power was out, then why was her computer still on?

A chill swept across her back, and every hair on her body stood on end. The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Her cheek was hurting so severely; her eyes were watering, but she didn't move. She couldn't move.

Somebody was standing right behind her as two long-fingered hands settled on her shoulders.

"You can't leave yet. You have so much more to write."

She had heard this voice before, but couldn't place it. Her throat was dry as sandpaper. Cora managed to speak, "Who are you?"

"Have you forgotten me already? Forgotten our deal?" The hands tightened on her shoulders, not painfully, but solid enough for her to feel the preternatural strength in them. The jubilant voice had taken on an edge, and like a yo-yo popped back up to amicable high. "I'm Alastor! We met last night!"

A vague memory rose to the surface of her frightened mind. A red figure looming over her with a wide smile. And the name registered with another memory of her mother. "You spoke with my mother today."

"Charming woman, your mother. She was worried about you, but I told her you're doing swell, typing away at our book!"

Her eyes lifted to the monitor with a foreign story written in her words. "You wrote this."

"Perish the thought! It's a joint effort! You did the writing, and I supplied the inspiration."

It was coming back to her in pieces, but it was enough for her to realize that the 'hallucination' she experienced last night wasn't a figment of a broken sleep deprived mind. She could be hallucinating now, but the pain in her face was undeniably real.

"What are you?" The real question she wanted to ask was, 'how do I get rid of you.'

"Why your new writing partner, of course! You and I are going to weave a grand tale to amaze the masses!" Alastor declared eagerly. "It's part of the deal we made. I give your unhappy brain a little spring cleaning, and you write a story, with some help from me, of course."

Cora's hands clenched in her knees. "That's what you want from me?"

"That and nothing more!"

Relaxing beneath his hands, she swallowed and took a deep breath. This could still be a hallucination, or maybe the infection from the scratch was messing with her brain, but if by some impossible chance this was real, it was best to play it safe.

"Okay. I'll write your story."


	4. The Second Day

"Well, Ms. Roseate, I don't see a problem."

"Are you sure? It's been hurting and bleeding."

The doctor peered at the scratch on her cheek, even giving it a gentle prod with a latex-gloved finger. "It's still fresh, but it's scabbed over. It may have been irritated while you slept." He pulled a prescription pad from his pocket and clicked a pen. "I'm going to prescribe some antibiotic cream and recommend you sleep with it covered with a bandaid."

Cora chewed her lower lip. "And it's not infected or anything like that?"

The doctor raised his gray eyes to her. "It shows no signs of infection. Are you concerned about cat scratch fever?"

"Maybe . . .does that cause hallucinations?"

With eyebrows raised, he set the prescription pad aside. "In very, very rare cases, but usually accompanied by other symptoms. "Any headaches or fevers?"

"Uh, no. No fevers or headaches."

"And you've been experiencing hallucinations?"

"Well, I think so and . . .blacking out spells. I've had hours disappear on me."

"Has any of these happen outside of your home?"

"No. Always inside my apartment."

"Have you been injured?"

"No. I just get confused and scared."

"Has there been any change in your medication? Have you taken any new drugs?"

"Well . . .my psychiatrist did prescribe me some new antidepressants last month."

"That could be the cause. Are you still taking them?"

"Actually, I stopped taking them a few days ago. I've been . . . I've been sleeping better and doing great in the day. It's at night that I have trouble."

"I was going to comment that you looked better since the last time you were in my office. You seem rested and more alert, so I'm disappointed to hear you are having problems. I would recommend contacting your psychologist and letting them know about these new problems. And I'm going to schedule you to get an MRI. It's likely the medication causing these hallucinations, but it's never a bad idea to rule out other problems too."

"Thank you, doctor."

***

She didn't want to go home, so she went to a matinee at the local theater and ate an early dinner alone in a cafe. It was only delaying the inevitable and as tempting as it would be to hide out in a hotel, that wasn't something she could do for the rest of her life.

Something told her that if she tried it, then the smiling face would be looming over her as she slept, accusing her of backing out of a deal.

Or maybe this was all because of the antidepressants? She had taken the doctor's advice and called the psychologist's office about the hallucination and made an appointment for tomorrow. Maybe after tomorrow, this would all be over and done with.

When she woke up that morning, it was nearly 9:00 AM. Cora couldn't remember when she went to bed. The last thing she remembered was talking to 'Alastor' and resume writing. After that, everything was so vague. The best she could remember was her fingers moving over the keyboard, tapping keys fluidly. She didn't bother looking at what she wrote, just called the doctor's office and asked to be worked in.

While on her way to the doctor, she called her mother. She chatted for a bit, steering clear of the topic about her health until she naturally brought up the subject she wanted to talk about. "Um, didn't you talk to an Alastor yesterday?"

"He was the one that told me you were working again."

"Right. Did he say anything else? Like something weird?"

"No. He was very polite, but it must have been a bad connection because it sounded strange each time he spoke. It was like I was listening to him through an old radio."

"Oh, I'll. . . I'll let him know."

"So you were working with him? You asked like you didn't know who I was talking about."

"Yeah, the . . .the publisher hired him without telling me."

"Have you been sleeping?"

Cora fingered the scratch on her cheek. "Yeah, I've been getting plenty of sleep lately. Must be the new meds."

Now she was nursing from a cup of coffee, trying hard not to think about going home. Alastor said that all he wanted was for the book to be finished. And he would leave then? How much longer before it was finished?

"Ex-excuse me."

Cora didn't notice the woman approaching her table. It was the petite blonde girl from her apartment building. She was wearing a long periwinkle dress with a dark purse draped over her shoulder. Clutches between her hands was a worn paperback copy of one of Cora's older novels.

A shade of pink covered the girl's cheeks, and she held the book before her like a shield. "Would you sign my book, Ms, Roseate?"

Her face glowing like a lighthouse, Cora slowly withdrew an ink pen from her purse. "S-sure. Whom do I make it out to?"

"Iris," the girl replied, relinquishing the book with some trepidation. "Iris Bleu."

As she opened the front cover, Cora wracked her brain for something clever to write. Her usual signature was 'To my dear fan,' but she wanted to write something more for Iris Bleu. A daring notion guided her hand, and she wrote as elegantly as she could.

To my beautiful fan, Iris Blue.

Feel hot and ready to burst into tears of humiliation, Cora handed the book back and waited. Iris blinked are the words and then turned the book around to point, "Sorry, but you misspelled my last name. It's B-L-E-U."

Cora grimaced at her error and at how she had made such a fool of herself. That is until Iris held the book glances away, face bright pink. "And I think you're beautiful too."

Swallowing almost overwhelmed with emotion, Cora asked, "There's a bookstore with a coffee shop nearby. We could get coffee, and I'll I buy you a new copy and sign it with the correct name?"

Iris gave her a lovely smile and nodded, "Sure."

***

The coffee date was the best few hours Cora had in months. Iris was not only beautiful and charming but also intelligent and a book lover.

"There's plenty of time to read between shoots," Iris explained.

She was an actress for a tv studio. For now, her roles were minor such as playing background jock's girlfriend or part of a lead character's clique of school girls. Though she was twenty-four, with the right makeup and hairstyle, she could pull off playing a precocious teenager. It earned her an audition to play a leading role in an upcoming drama.

"Wow, soon I'll be asking for your autograph," Cora said, completely smitten.

Irish smiled, her eyes filling with affection. "Just come upstairs. I live above you."

"Really? I've seen you around, but I didn't know you were my upstairs neighbor," Cora said. Her hand slid across the table to take Irish's hand in hers. "Maybe one night, one of us can visit the other and watch some late night tv."

Something crossed across Iris's face. It was a flinch, a widening of the eyes and tightening of the jaw. For a second, Cora could have sworn that she saw fear in the other woman's eyes. Had she . . .had she made a mistake? Maybe Iris wasn't interested in women as she had thought?

Terrified that she had offended her, Cora withdrew her hand. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm reading too much into this."

"N-no, it's fine. Yes, I would love to spend time with you," Iris said quickly, recovering from whatever had happened. "It's just that I have a strict schedule and sometimes . . .sometimes I have visitors over. Let me give you my phone number so you can call first before coming up."

***

The sun was dipping down by the time she returned home - to the apartment. Being with Iris allowed her to forget and now that she was standing before the door. It was standing at the edge of a cliff. She wanted to turn around and leave, maybe visit her mother or spend the night in a hotel. Mom would demand an answer, and how long could she avoid her apartment?

She went inside into a cool room, shucking off her coat and kicking off her shoes as she went. A quick look around the apartment didn't produce Alastor nor any strange happenings. Feeling some relief, she took a shower and played on her phone with her hair wrapped in a towel.

Cora avoided her computer, too afraid to see what was written in the hours she couldn't recall. As night came and still no Alastor, she began to wonder if maybe it had all been a hallucination after all?

Maddie was still hiding under the bed, occasionally peeking at her whenever she walked around. Cora took her water and food dish and put it under the bed with her. Maybe she should include the litter box too?

And if Maddie was still afraid, did that mean it had all been real? The scratch on her cheek seemed normal and scabbed over. Maybe it had been simply irritated last night. Could it have all been her meds, making her blackout and see and hear things?

There was only one way to be sure.

It was possible it all came out of her brain, but she was no expert when it came to New Orleans in the 20s.

She booted up the desktop and the several minutes it took to power on was the longest in her life. By the time she was able to open the word doc, she was almost tempted to save herself the grief and turn everything off.

The word doc opened, and she scrolled down towards the bottom until she saw something new. With her blood turning cold, she read about Emilia's accounts of meeting the manor's owner, a charming man who worked as a radio show host.

Her heart skipped a beat when she read the name.

_The friendly man took Emilia's hand in a light grasp and took off his head with the sweep of a long arm. "Welcome to my home, Emilia. My name is Alastor."_

"Holy shit," she breathed. "I'm writing his story."

So engrossed in reading the manuscript, she failed to notice the lights dimming and shadows moving at the edges of the pool of light around her formed by the monitor. She heard the click of tap shoes behind her and turned in the chair to get a full look at Alastor since the night she made the deal.


	5. The Third Night

Oh God, the hallucinations weren’t hallucinations.

She once learned that to make a third-dimensional scene in prose, you had to incorporate at least three senses. She could see Alastor standing nearly seven feet tall and standing beside an iron round table where a tea set was sitting. She could smell the tea steeping from within the pot. And she could hear Alastor speaking to her.

“Cream or sugar, my dear?”

For the first time, since this whole thing began, she was experiencing a new emotion other than fear and confusion. Anger.

“We’re writing . . .no, you’re having me write your story!” She hitched a thumb towards the monitor with the incriminating evidence in Times Roman font.

“That’s part of our deal,” Alastor said, making a motioning with a finger at the tea set. The red teapot rose on its own accord and tilted, splashing tea into the waiting cup.

“But you didn’t tell me it was about you!”

“I fail to see how that alters the deal,” Alastor said, shrugging nonchalantly. “Cream or sugar?”

“Look, why do you need me to write this?” Cora demanded. “It’s about you, so why don’t you just write it yourself?”

The grin never faded, neither did the affable demeanor, but the change was there beneath the surface. The room darkened, blocking out any other source of light other than the monitor’s glow and the shadows writhed like snakes. Alastor’s eyes went black at the edges, causing the pupils to glow like hot embers. “Cream? Or sugar?”

“Cream, please,” Cora said quickly.

Now she could add taste. The tea was sweet with a nutty flavor and felt warm going down. With the teacup cradled between her hands, she studied Alastor’s appearance.

He had the appearance of a very tall man in red clothing, but his hair was as vividly red as his eyes but ended in black tips. Two large tufts sat atop of his head in a startling resemblance of ears. Between them were two small antlers, barely longer than her middle finger. His mouth was affixed continuously in a permanent grin with jagged yellow teeth that parted to allow him to sip his tea.

“I’m . . .I’m curious to know why . . .why me?” Cora asked. It was like she was walking through a minefield. Wrong questions could make him scary, but then it could have been his impatience with her refusing his hospitality.

“I answered the invitation!” Alastor said, lowering the teacup to a saucer. “And there you were waiting for the sandman.”

“I didn’t invite you,” Cora said, hoping that this was a big misunderstanding.

“Curious!” Alastor declared, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “No matter. We still have a deal.”

“But . . .I said I wasn’t the one that invited you,” Cora said, not willing to relinquish this small hope.

“Yet, you struck a deal with me,” Alastor said as kindly as a teacher explaining a complex problem to a slow student. “It doesn’t matter who or why I was called here, but that you made a deal with me. I’ve been upholding my end marvelously, I might add. You have color in your cheeks. And you’ve been doing well on your end.”

“About that,” Cora sighed. It hurt to see her last bit of hope fade away under those ruby red eyes. “How come I’ve been blacking out whenever I write? What are you doing to me?”

“I join you,” Alastor explained. “You write, but I guide you on what to write.”

Narrowing her eyes, she said slowly, “When you said join me . . .what do you mean?”

Tilting his head, he tapped a scarlet glove tip on his chin. “I think you would call it possession.”

“Oh . . .my . . .god,” Cora moaned. That would explain the blackout and lack of memory because someone else was at the steering wheel. “You can’t do that . . .”

“Of course, I can!” Alastor replied. “Look at how much we’ve done together! You write without distraction and focus on the plot.”

She had to admit that he had a point. More had been written in less than three days than she would have done in three months. However, despite the progress, it still creeped her out that she could not control her own body during this writing process. “Why do you . . .why do you need me to write your story? I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m curious.”

“Why, you got talent, kid,” Alastor beamed at her. “And I got a story to tell.”

She couldn’t argue with that. It wasn’t that she was vain, but after writing almost twenty novels since she was seventeen, with more than half of them spending some time on the bestsellers list. On the wall of her bedroom, was a few Literary awards mounted on the wall. She earned enough in royalties to quit her job and write full time.

“Alright, so you want a ghostwriter,” she said, finally getting a grasp on something.

“Oh, no no no, it’ll be published under your name only.”

And then she lost her grasp. Utterly confused, she shook her head and set her teacup aside. “You don’t want your name under the title at all?”

“My name will be the title!” Alastor rose, sweeping a hand across the air like a showman showing off an act. “Alastor! In sweeping bright red letters across the cover.”

It only gave her more confusion. “And once the story is written and published. .. you’ll leave me alone.”

“Of course. I won’t need you anymore.”

The emotion gave one after the other. Worry that she was experiencing the hallucination of drugs or poor mental health, fear that this was real, and resignation to the only solution to her problem. “Alright, may I look at what we wrote last time before we resume?”

“Certainly!”

Ten minutes of skimming later, Cora was nodding to herself. This didn’t seem bad at all. The story continued with Emilia getting acquainted with her new home and eccentric employer. This was almost coming across as a cross class romance since she found the radio show host charming and kind. It was almost akin to what she usually wrote.

“We’re about to get to the good part,” Alastor said, inches from her ear.

If his hands weren’t on her shoulders, she would have jumped. Swallowing, she scrolled to the bottom and clicked at the end of the last sentence.

_On a moonless night, Emilia was sleeping peacefully after a long day’s work, when she heard a sound outside her window._


	6. The Third Day

“Hi, this is Cora Roseate, I’m calling to confirm my appointment for this afternoon.”

“Cora Roseate? One moment,” there was a pause after the sound of sifting pages came across the line. “I’m sorry, but your appointment was canceled.”

“It . . .it was? Why?”

“Your assistant, Alastor, called this morning and said you didn’t need to come in,” the receptionist said in an apologetic tone. “I’m sorry, but we already filled in the spot with another client. I can pencil you in for tomorrow.”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose in deep annoyance. “Never mind. Maybe another time. Thank you.”

After hanging up, she laid the phone face down on the table and swore under her breath, “Dammit, Alastor . . .”

***

She spent the day inside, watching television in peace, and ordering pizza for lunch and dinner. It was the first time she enjoyed being at home alone for a long time. She had forgotten the small joy of having no pressing matters or being at the edge of panic for not doing anything. It was no small pleasure just to be . . .okay.

Or could she call it that?

That afternoon, she opened her phone to her contact’s list and eyed Iris’s number, tempted to call her, but too shy to do so. Maybe a text message would be better, but what should she text?

 _Hi, how are you?_ That seemed too dull, and she was a writer for God’s sake.

 _Looking forward to seeing you again._ That would make her seem clingy.

As she tormented herself on what she should text, her phone buzzed in her hands, and a text from Iris popped up.

 **Iris** : _Hi, how are you?_

Laughing at herself, Cora texted back that she was fine and was taking a self-care day.

 **Iris** : _Would you like to come up? Just for a little bit. I’m going to be busy tonight—room 308._

 **Cora** : _That’s the room above mine! Let me grab my shoes, and I’ll be right up._

As she hunted for her shoes, she noticed the home care of her apartment was lacking. The floor was dirty, and the sink was full of dishes. Dirty clothes littered the apartment and draped over furniture. It was a good thing she didn’t think to invite Iris over. There was no time to do the dishes or pick up dirty clothes, but she could have the Roomba clean the floors while she was out.

It was tucked away in its station in the corner of the kitchen. She pressed the clean button on top, and it chirruped with a full message. Damn, well, she still didn’t have time to empty its canister of dust and dirt. She’d take care of it another day.

It was a short trip up the stairs and to room 308. The halls were identical to hers, so it was almost an eerie feeling as if she were an alternate world where she didn’t belong, and someone else called her apartment home. At the door with the stenciled letters 308, she knocked, heart pounding in her chest at the possibility of an intimate evening with the lovely Iris.

“Come on in, I’m just putting a few things away.”

It seems that she wasn’t the only one needed to do some quick cleaning. Opening the slowly emitted her into an apartment shaped much like her own, but so very different. For starters, the biggest tv she had ever seen was set against the far wall. It was well over 100 inches big, large enough to serve as a personal theater.

Drawing close to admire it, Cora could see her reflection in the ebony surface of the screen. Ugh, why didn’t she change clothes? She was still wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, and her hair should have been brushed and tied back before she left the apartment. Dammit, she was in such a hurry to get her.

In the reflective screen, another figure stood behind her, just at the edge of her peripheral vision. A very tall and thin figure wearing a dark suit and a red bowtie. Something was wrong with the head; perhaps it was the warp reflection that made it seem too wide. Cora turned around and saw nothing but the empty room behind her.

Was it a figment of her imagination? Days ago, she would have, but since having a figure in a red suit visiting her each night, she had some doubts. Had it been Alastor? No. The body shape and cut of the suit had been different, especially the lack of red. And it had . . .it had a different ‘feel’ to it. By now, she was familiar with Alastor’s presence, but this . . .whatever it was had been different, foreign.

Cora gave herself a mental shake as she was reading too much into it. It could have been a reflection of anything. In fact, looking around, it could very well have been one of the movie posters hanging on each wall in the apartment. They were classics from Casablanca to Pulp Fiction to Back to the Future. She knew Iris was a rising actress but had no idea she was a movie buff.

“Hi, sorry to keep you waiting,” Iris said, emerging from a side room, which was Cora’s bedroom in her apartment. “What do you think?”

It took her a moment to realize she was talking about the television. “It’s pretty big. I didn’t know TVs could come in this size.”

“Oh, they come bigger. I would have gotten a bigger set, but it would have been too big for the movers to carry it up the stairs.” Iris headed for the kitchen area, which had a clear steel polish with french doors. “I have some iced coffee if you like.”

“Uh, yeah, that sounds nice.”

The strange head man became a forgotten memory for Cora as she fell in love with Iris.

***

It had been a fun afternoon with Iris, and she was sad to see it end. But the parting was worth it as she exchanged a kiss with the lovely blonde that promised more intimate things to come. Cora felt like she was floating as she returned to her apartment, feeling warm and rejuvenated. To think, days ago, it was a miracle if she could get herself out of bed. Now she was halfway through a new book, and . . .maybe had a girlfriend, dare she hoped?

And then just like that, when the door shut behind her, she had the sense of impending doom as she headed for her computer. Might as well see what Alastor had her write last night.

After several minutes of skimming, she stared in horror at the words. This was not a romance novel, not at all.


	7. Fish on a Hook

It wasn't a long wait before the sun went down, casting the outside world into pitch darkness. Or perhaps it was how it appeared whenever Alastor made his appearance. Maybe she became so accustomed to it the sudden darkening of the room no longer scared her, or perhaps it was the underlying fury beneath the surface. 

When he stepped from the shadows, with his affable, yet somehow still terrifying grin, Cora shot him a glare.

"Smile!" Alastor said with a sweep of his arms and a twirl of his cane. "You're never fully dressed without one!"

"I don't have anything to smile about." Cora jabbed a finger at him as she spoke. "You do not answer my phone calls. You do not call and cancel doctor's appointments for me."

"Is that what you're sore about?" Alastor continued grinning, tilting his head in an analytical pose. "Can't have them putting you in a funny farm when there's nothing wrong with your noodle, not when we have more work to do."

"And about that." Cora turned to the monitor and pointed at the open word doc. "I can't publish this. This will not sell."

There was a long pregnant pause. Alastor stared at her, head twitching like a curious bird, but with the intent of a predator. "Sells aren't important, my dear. This isn't about the money."

"I don't care what it's about." Cora slapped her hands on her knees in a fury. "If I turn this into my editor, she'll be the one to lock me up in the funny farm. Why the hell didn't you tell this was going to become a . . .a . . .snuff, horror, gore novel! There are pages, after pages of Emilia being hunted through the woods, murdered, and then butchered! I cannot publish this! I won't! My career will turn to shit if this gets out!"

The smile never changed, but everything around it did. The edges of his crimson eyes spiral into darkness until only small flints of scarlet glared at her. The two small, stub-like horns sprouted, branching out from his head, and his already immense height grew taller until he was filling the room.

**_Your career was already failing when I arrived._ **

His voice screeched like a broken record being ripped apart by the needle. Cora pressed her hands across her hands, trying to shut out the sound, but it crawled through her head, hurting as she could hear every word.

**_You couldn't so much as write a Get Well card before I came along. Writhing in bed, struggling to get even a wink of sleep, and a month away from taking a dirt nap before I intervened._ **

Could he have read her thoughts? She had considered suicide more than once . . . too often. 

**_Thanks to me, you can take a walk and smell the daisies. Thanks to me, you canoodle with the pretty blonde upstairs._ **

He had been watching her during the day? Did he see her with Iris? Was nothing in her life private anymore?

**_And it will be thanks to me that you will rise from the embers of your fallen career. So be the good little writer and write._ **

Everything went dark as if a light switch was flipped. The next thing Cora could conceive was her fingers moving across the keyboard while long finger hands curled around her shoulders, guiding her writing, the structure of the story, towards its bloody conclusion.

***

Tyler couldn't see through the tears. They dotted the knees of her jeans, and the tissue was wadded between her fingers as she struggled to speak between sobs.

"I . . .I didn't mean for this to happen . . .I thought I was careful . . ."

On the opposite of pink wallpaper, an old remnant of the old nursery her parents decorated for her before she was born, was framed certificates for the top in class, first place science projects, and extracurricular diplomas. There were pictures of Tyler posing with her friends at Christian Youth Camp and standing with her date at prom. That had been the night when she made a mistake. 

"If my parents find out . . .they'll make me drop out of school and marry Matthew . . .he's not a bad guy, but . . .I have plans! I got accepted into NYU . . .I start in the fall."

Guilt assailed her, filling her up with fresh tears. They course down her face as she fell into another bout of weeping. "I know it's wrong, but I can't get it done without my parents knowing . . ."

A wisp of crimson smoke curled in the air, almost glowing in the dark bedroom. It sifted through her dark hair, tousling it with unnatural tangibility. "It's okay, baby girl. I ain't judgin' you. You're a beautiful young girl who made a little mistake is all. That's why I'm here to fix it for you."

"I-is it going to hurt?"

"Not gonna lie to a pretty girl. It will," the voice crooned with affection. "Once it's over, you won't have anything keeping you from NYU."

"W-what do I have to do?"

"Sign your name on the dotted line, sugar." 

On the bedstead was a contract with a waiting fountain pen. She had skimmed through it several times, and each time made her heart skip a beat. "When I die . . . I'll go to hell and work for you."

"That is the terms of the contract, darling." The crimson smoke shifted and molded into a caricature of a hand and rested on her shoulder in a gentle, reassuring grasp. "In exchange for a lifetime of success and happiness, an eternity of working for me."

"I . . .I don't know." She was waffling, scared, but so tempted.

Sometimes, they needed a little push in the right direction. "I can't force you into something you don't want, sugar. I'm not your parents nor that baby you got growing inside of you."

Tyler flinched at the mention of baby, and guilt twisted her face as her hand laid across her stomach. 

"It's sad, really," he continued, taking a slow drag on the cigarette and blowing the smoke across the room. "You've been shot down by your boyfriend's jizz before you've reached your prime."

She shuddered, not speaking, but listening. He only had to reel her in slowly, carefully. 

"Nine months, think of where you want to be, sugar." The crimson smoke hand toyed with her hair with the adoration of a parent. "Do you want to go to late-night college parties drinking with friends and meeting handsome guys or pacing the floor begging the kid to stop crying so you can get some shut-eye and make it to work on time in the morning? Do you want to attend lectures or be changing diapers? Be the preppy college girl or the down on her luck teen mom everyone is going to judge as a slut who couldn't keep her legs close long enough to graduate high school?"

Was that last bit too harsh? Maybe it was, but he was getting impatient. He wasn't allowed to force or intimidate humans into making deals or contracts. It had to be their choice to sell their souls, but they could be encouraged with honeyed words. 

Tyler closed her eyes, her lower chin trembling, and reached for the contract and pen. The pen scratched the paper for three long seconds, and she held out the contract. The red smoke hand took the contract from her and carried it across the room where he perched on the edge of a desk. Upon inspection, he saw her name in cursive on the dotted line.

"Very good, darling," he purred, very pleased, and feeling genuine affection for her at that moment. He loved it when his possessions did as he wanted. "You'll want to lie down for this part."

"You're. . .you're going to do it now?" 

"Why wait?" 

She was trembling again, but she was lying down on the bed. "D-do I need to take . . take off my pants."

He almost - _almost_ \- said, _That will come later._ Best not to overplay his hand, even after he hooked her. "No, just relax and let Daddy Val take care of your little problem."

Taking a deep, deep drag on his cigarette, it nearly burned to the filter, he released a long stream towards her face. The crimson smoke went up her nose and into her mouth, eliciting a coughing fit. It was a small feat for a demon of his power. Since she gave permission by signing the contract, he could fulfill his end of the deal by inducing a miscarriage. 

Tyler rolled onto her side, clutching her middle, as her body began cramping. Tears of pain rolled down her face as she struggled to keep from screaming. It didn't cost anything to give her a tidbit of advice.

"Turn your head and bite the pillow, baby," Valentino said, tucking the freshly signed contract into his long coat. "It'll be over in a few minutes."

Something in the window caught his eye. Lowering heart-shaped shades and approaching the blinds gave him a clearer look. Parting the blinds with a thumb and forefinger allowed him to confirm what he was seeing, and it brought a wide pink grin to his face.

Several blocks away was an apartment building and on the second and third levels were two brilliant lights that no human could see. The second level had a brilliant red light while the third floor had a familiar blue light. And for them to be this close . . . 

"Well, shit, this ought to be good."

From the muffled sounds from the bed, he could tell Tyler had taken his advice.

***

Electrical blue finger blades tread through blonde tresses, teasing the scalp beneath it.

"Who was that in your apartment this afternoon?"

"A friend . . .are you mad at me?"

The end of a cigarette came to life in a flash of blue. Smoke rose from the flared tip, almost glowing from the massive tv's snowy screen. 

"What's your friend's name?"

"C-Cora . . .please, don't be mad at me. You never said I couldn't date . . ."

The finger blades tighten into the hair, the sharp tips dragging along the scalp, drawing a pained gasp. 

"There's a lot of things I don't say, Bubbles, and as for being mad, nothing pisses me off more than my questions being avoided. Does your friend have a last name, or is she like Cher, and I'm supposed to know her by her first name only?"

"C-C-Cora R-Roseate. She's a writer . . .she writes books."

"That's all?"

"Y-yes, sir. . . .I won't see her again if you don't want me to . . ."

"Do you know why the fuck the Radio Demon is hanging around your writer friend?"

"N-no, sir."

"Did you - look at me, Bubbles!" 

Finger blades whispered through blonde curls in a grasp, and a head was turned. Tearful cornflower blue eyes reflected in the screen, almost standing out in contrast with the light blue teeth holding a cigarette. Metallic fingers took the cigarette from the teeth and held just above her face. 

"Did you teach her demon rituals, Bubbles?"

"N-n-no, sir! I promise I didn't!" Tears fell freely as a small petite body trembled like a fish caught on a hook. "I wouldn't do anything to make you mad!"

A long, thoughtful silence, broken by sobs and the cigarette burning followed. The metal fingers released the hair and resumed gentle stroking. The cigarette lowered harmless away from her face. 

"I believe you. I know you wouldn't ever lie to me. You know what I'd do to you if you did."

It was answered with a supplicating nod. "I would never lie to you, Mr. Vox. You've done so much for me, and I love you."

"As for your friend . . .keep dating her. I want to know why the fuck the Radio Demon is hanging around her so much."

It was a curious enigma. Alastor had been silent for the last few days with the radio playing music on a loop, and that had never happened. No special shows or announcements for days. Vox sent out feelers to try to determine what was going on and even believed that Alastor was planning to follow the example of every Overlord in Hell and take territory for himself. 

But he's been in the Living World this whole time, hanging around a writer of all things. He would have thought the Radio Demon would have been haunting another radio host or even a podcast, but then that wouldn't be his style.

As far as Vox knew, Alastor hardly ever came to the Living World anymore. He often did back before Vox's time in Hell, but now he only went a handful of times a year . . .if at that. And never for so long. 

What deal had been struck between Alastor and the writer? Vox really wanted to know. 

**Author's Note:**

> Any Kudos or Comments is much appreciated and keeps me motivated to produce more content!


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